From Ant to Eagle(42)

That first day had been the hardest—no doubt. After a whole summer with Aleta it felt like I wasn’t just losing a friend—I felt like I was losing a part of my body. Like I was cutting my arm off or something. But I knew it had to be done. For Sammy’s sake, it had to be done.

Dad picked me up fifteen minutes late that day—each day he took a little longer coming to get me from school. And each day he’d arrive with a little more hair on his face and a little less energy in his voice. Then we’d drive to the hospital with only a short “How was your day?” passing between us.

I was glad for the school week to be over. It meant I could sleep on the cot for the weekend and not have to worry about the kids at school teasing me, or getting myself ready in the morning without Mom’s help, or having to look at Sammy’s empty bunk when I climbed out of bed. Mostly, I was looking forward to having time with Sammy so I could make things right between us. Even after a whole week of trying I didn’t seem to be making any headway. But the night before I’d come up with an idea that I was sure would work. I was going to right all the wrong I’d done that summer.

When we arrived at the hospital Mom was talking at the nurse’s desk with a lady I recognized from Bingo night.

“Hi, honey,” she said, giving me a quick wave from across the nursing station before turning back to the woman.

I waited beside Dad while he signed us in.

“Any cough, fever, or cold-like symptoms?” the nurse behind the counter asked. It was always the same questions. It reminded me of going through security at the airport except on the oncology ward your weapon is your germs.

We both shook our heads and held out our hands so she could place a dab of sanitizer into them.

When we walked around to the other side of the nursing station Mom was finishing her conversation. The woman she was talking to had red, shoulder-length hair and a pin on her shirt that read: Parents Fundraiser Committee. I was trying to remember who her child was when it hit me—Marsha! Her daughter’s name was Marsha. She was eight years old and had brain cancer that they’d had to open her skull to take out. Oliver had told me this and his descriptions were never easy to forget.

“Eight o’clock in the big room next to the cafeteria,” Mom said. “We’ll be there.”

She turned to Dad and me and we all walked back to Sammy’s room.

“What’s at eight o’clock?” Dad asked when we got to the room.

“The parents’ volunteer meeting tonight,” Mom said, “I told Barb we’d both come.” Mom’s tone sounded like it was a done deal but Dad’s face didn’t look very happy about that.

“Lizzy,” Dad said, he always called Mom Lizzy when he wanted something, “I…I…”

“I, what?” Mom asked.

“I just don’t think right now is the right time for me to start joining things. Why don’t I stay with the boys—take them to the games room. You can go.”

“Harold, please don’t make this an argument. It would be nice to get involved around here—like it or not we’re going to be here for a while—and it won’t kill you to spend a couple hours a week giving back.”

Dad’s shoulders slumped. “Liz, I’m telling you—I’m not going. I’m sorry, but it’s just not for me.”

“But I’ve already told Barb we’d both—”

Dad held up his hand. “I’m not going, Liz.”

Mom’s face tightened into a scowl but she didn’t keep arguing. Instead she went to her bed, sat down and picked up her latest book—Surviving Childhood Cancer: A Guide For Families and Dad walked over to Sammy’s bed.

Sammy had been flipping through his baseball card binder, pretending not to listen.

“How’s it going, sport?” Dad asked.

Sammy put the cards down. “Good.”

“How’s your tummy?” I asked, walking up to the bedside table. “Is it still hurting?”

His stomach had been bothering him all week even with the pain medicines the nurses gave him.

Sammy shrugged. “It’s fine.”

I reached inside my backpack and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. “Okay,” I said. “How bad is your tummy pain?”

It was time to start implementing my plan but Sammy just looked at me with a confused expression.

See, I had been thinking it through the night before. Why didn’t Sammy seem excited to hang out with me anymore? What had changed? Well, I knew it was the summer—yes—but I figured that couldn’t be all of it because there were still times when we’d go to the games room and suddenly he’d be back to himself.

Then it came to me. It was what the doctors and nurses called his symptoms—his tummy pain, his nausea, his headaches. The nurses were always asking how bad his tummy pain was on a scale of zero to ten but they only came in every few hours unless we asked for them. My idea was to keep track of Sammy’s symptoms so I could ask the nurses for more pain medicines when he needed them. That way his tummy wouldn’t bother him so much and he’d want to spend more time in the games room with me.

I repeated my question, “How bad is your tummy pain right now?”

Sammy shrugged. “It hurts a bit.”

“No, I mean, like, on the zero to ten scale the nurses use. Ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt and zero being no pain.” I said it just like the nurses always said it. “I’m going to start writing it down for you. That way when it gets bad I can ask the nurses to bring you more pain medicines.”